[Pictures_Of_You_#_19: The_Dear_Rob_Edition]

Dear Rob,

You've done it. You've finally posted a picture of TRENT REZNOR on nin.com.

Usually, all you have on offer there are pictures of the other guys in the "band" (and, who cares?), or pictures of a whole cast of rock 'n' roll cartoon characters, garishly lit, their bulgingly-muscled commander, arms out-stretched, resplendent at their helm. And, let's be clear: if Trent Reznor is captured photographically in any way, shape, or form, I will look at it; I'm not picky. However, despite the obvious wet-dreamy coolness of your camera and lenses, all the access and practice you get in aiming and shooting your magnificent subject, and as technically proficient as you clearly are, I always find it disappointing that there aren't more pictures of TRENT REZNOR; you know, where he isn't in the middle of a BIG ACT, but is just Trent, doing stuff that Trent does when he's not on a stage where we can all see him for ourselves. Seriously, Rob. What's the point if you're not going to show us something we can't see without your specially positioned eyes?

This latest offering, though, shows notre amour exactly as I love him most: sharp-eyed with concentration, working on something. Something wonderful, I would wager. Something that, should I ever be fortunate enough to hear it, might just thrill me more than anything else he's ever worked on, which is to say A FUCKING LOT. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in that room! Or, better yet, inside Trent's big, giant brain, watching the neurons fire their little electrical charges, and being able to somehow know exactly what paths they follow through the constellation of his memories, thoughts, emotions, desires, and proficiencies to align themselves in the production his beautiful work! Jesus Fucking Christ. I love that guy.

On top of that, there's that delicious bed, and there are no words in the English language to adequately express the scrumptious perfection of the image of Trent lying asleep in it, his dark hair and warm skin a stark contrast to it's cool, clean, whitness; his eyes closed softly, lips slightly parted, his breathing deep and peaceful. Oh, God. I can't even think of anything more delicious, and I am WRACKING MY BRAINS.

Then there's the dog! The dog who is allowed on the bed! The dog with its sweet, attentive face focused on its master, listening. The Dog! Jesus, THE DOG. What is it about the dog that makes you feel like you can see into Trent's heart when you look at it? Yes, yes. I know I'm insane, and that there is no math in what I'm saying, but I hope that while Trent lay in that bed, feverish, swallowing bits of glass, or drowning in phlegm, that his sweet dog licked his face, and rested it's delicate little chin on his thigh. I hope that dog looked at him with all the uncomplicated, unreserved love that can only come from the pure heart of a dog, and I hope that if he spent hours alone, suffering his illness like a man, that his dog was there to make it all a little less abject.

I know we have our differences, Rob, but all I'm saying is that, while I still think you don't have enough aesthetic sense, appreciation, love, or adequate humanist reverence in your frat-tastic Hollywood hipster heart to do your job as documentarian of that gorgeous creature ANY FUCKING JUSTICE, this latest picture is lovely; so thanks for posting it.

Love,
Dierdre